


my body is its own shipwreck

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Trust Issues, Will Graham Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: Will still has memory gaps. He can't help but worry about what Hannibal might have done during them.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 122
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Prompt Table Challenge: Clouds and Shadows





	my body is its own shipwreck

**Author's Note:**

> **bad things happen bingo:** grabbed by the chin  
>  **clouds and shadows @ creativechallenges:** abuse  
>  **story works:** comfort challenge
> 
> i'm like, sad, and have had this idea around my head for a while. so i wrote it out.
> 
> enjoy!

It doesn't really sink into him until he starts having nightmares at their cabin.

Will still has memory gaps about the time he had encephalitis. They're hazy moments, not remembering most of one day, only bits and pieces. He's remembered the ear, the blinding light, the feeling of a seizure going through his body, but sometimes he does not remember anything. The gap is _there_ , tangible and felt, like he could seize it by his hand and beg for it to let him know what happened during it.

And of course, of course, he's scared of what could have happened during those gaps. 

When Hannibal got Abigail's ear down his throat, he remembers him caressing his cheek as he did so. It was a creepy gesture, enough for his mind to go wild overthinking it. Maybe Hannibal did unspeakable things to him, things he will never talk about with him. And now he's stuck with him.

He can't go back home, because that would mean being sent to prison for the murder of Francis Dolarhyde and for helping Hannibal leave prison. He loathes the thought of being stuck in prison too much to prefer it over being stuck here with this man who could truly have done anything to him. He doesn't remember and he's scared of remembering— he wants to believe he's being paranoid and traumatized and scared (that his abuser in his childhood left him fucked up beyond measure), not that he is _right_ once again, that Hannibal did abuse him. He doesn't want to get used to the idea that he will now spend time with a man who maybe sexually abused him. He will now kill with a man who maybe sexually abused him. He will now eat with a man who maybe sexually abused him.

It doesn't help that Hannibal is clearly in love with him. Bedelia confirmed what he already knew, and now he's just waiting for him to make a move and for himself to have a panic attack over it. The mere thought makes him sick to his stomach, like there's something deeply wrong underneath his skin.

It wouldn't even be out of character for Hannibal. As much as he showed disgust and loathing toward Mason Verger, it was because he was discourteous, not because he abused his sister and too many children to count. His priorities, perhaps, aren't sorted— perhaps his sense of morality is as deeply fucked up as it can get. He can see it, being on an induced period of memory loss as Hannibal works his hand beneath his pants and into his boxers, caressing him.

It's such a disgusting thought that it makes him want to throw up. But he still gets more vivid images than that.

_He's in a bed. He's not sure whose or where, but he's in a bed. He's looking up at the ceiling as something pushes into him, that unmistakable feeling of unwanted penetration. It's not harsh, though. The man on top of him is careful, lubed, working into him gently, like he's a piece of real estate he doesn't want damaged. Like he will be sold to another, worse man one day._

_The man on top of him looks down. It's his childhood friend, Matthias. His childhood nightmare, perhaps. Always getting inside him and apologizing the night afterward. He's not ten anymore, though. He hasn't seen him for years upon years, a memory tucked underneath his pillow; he's grown now._

_"You're grown now," he informs him, voice thick with disgust at the fact he is now grown. There are exactly ten years and nine months between them. He still looks twenty years old._

_He does sell him to a worse man. The scene shifts, the stag in the corner of his eye before there's Hannibal on top of him, pushing into him. He gasps and looks at the ceiling, eyes wide. He feels the same haziness he felt back when he had encephalitis, the sensation of spilling, of being broken at the seams. He had grown accustomed to that sensation back then— he isn't anymore. It's been four years._

_Hannibal grabs his chin roughly, makes him gasp out as he forces him to look at him. Pain shoots through him. He's not as careful as Matthias._

_"Look at me, Will," he says, voice thick with desire, with amusement twinkling in his eyes. He's smiling in that self-satisfied way of his, smug and petulant. He wants to throw up. "Look at me as I do this to you."_

_He can't escape his grip, as much as he wants to. His limbs feel like they're filled with lead, unable to move. Hannibal drugged him, perhaps._

_"Dr. Lecter," he chokes out._

_"Shh. It'll be fine. You're stuck with me, darling boy. You're stuck with me."_

Will wakes up drenched in sweat, but most importantly, he's crying. He's always woken up sweaty from nightmares, but this is one of the very few and far between where he's _crying_ , tears sliding down his cheeks as he tries to cope with what he saw, what his subconscious conjured up.

Most of the nightmares that have made him cry have been about Matthias.

The thought makes bile rise up his throat and he hugs his legs as he cries onto his knees, sobbing. He's a loud crier, tears bubbling up out of his throat in the form of loud sobs that wrack through his mouth without any mercy. His eyes burn and he's shaking ever so slightly.

He's almost forgotten Hannibal is in the cabin with him until he hears his light footsteps, going silent as the door creaks ever so slightly.

"Will?" he asks. "Are you alright? Do you need help?"

A shiver curls up his spine and he sobs again. 

"N-no. I'll be fine— I'll be fine."

Hannibal walks into his room anyway. He feels like he might kill him if he gets too close, like he'll snap and grab him with his hands, scratch at him until he pulls him off. His whole body is pulsing with a mix of dread and fear and hatred. 

"Will you?" he asks, keeping a reasonable distance between them. "What was your nightmare about, Will?"

Will shakes his head and unfurls himself out of his twist of limbs to look at Hannibal. He can see that genuine worry in his eyes, gaze sad and caring, but he can't shake off the notion of his dreams. Hannibal, on top of him. Hannibal, grabbing his chin.

"Did you—" he starts, and he retches. He can't do this. He really can't. "I still have memory gaps."

"I supposed you always would have memories missing," Hannibal says. Open, caring, false.

"I can't shake off the feeling you did something terrible to me when you— when you provoked those memory gaps in me." Before Hannibal can open his mouth and said _I did_ , in an effort to be forthcoming and honest and _good_ , he continues, "Something _worse_ than what I already know you did. Something rotten."

Hannibal frowns.

"Something sexual?" he suggests.

Will lets out an ugly sob, full of snot. "You would not lose anything if you admitted you did," he starts, shaking ever so slightly. He's trying to bargain for the truth. "I'm stuck with you. I'd prefer to be stuck with a man who abused me than to go back to the asylum. You could tell me and I couldn't do — couldn't do anything about it. Perhaps you may even want to make me remember."

"All I would lose is your trust," Hannibal says.

He laughs. "Well, that's already on pretty shaky footing, Dr. Lecter," he deadpans, grabbing at his knees.

"I'm aware," he says, voice heavy. "I have never touched you in a sexual way, Will, and I never will unless you give me explicit permission to. Rapists are some of the people I have the highest contempt for, because using someone's body is beyond discourteous. That is one of the many reasons I hate Mason Verger so strongly."

Will nods numbly. It feels formulaic, like Hannibal had been rehearsing this answer to his fears in front of the mirror. But he sounds sincere.

"I understand where your fears are coming from, Will," he continues, voice even. He makes no effort to get closer to his bed; he's still standing up, looking at him and through him, like a mirror of his own. "And I will not make any attempts to convince you that I have not touched you. That is something you must come to in your own." He swallows. "You have all the time in the world to believe me or not believe me. I am just asking you to take care of yourself."

Will nods and whimpers, closing his eyes tight and leaning forward, hugging his knees once again. "Please don't touch me without asking," he says. "In any situation."

"I'll be careful," Hannibal says. "I'll take that in stride."

During their next kill, Hannibal' s hand hovers over his shoulder for a half-second before he pulls away, embarrassed and mortified. Will's hand twitches around the knife he used to gut their victim, and he uses his free hand to grab at Hannibal's arm.

"You can," he says, voice even with worry and eagerness.

Hannibal leans in and grabs at his shoulder, squeezing ever so gently.

They part ways into their bedrooms that night, bringing the body to the kitchen and taking care of it. The night is long and they go to bed late, when the birds are about to start singing their good mornings. 

He doesn't dream about Hannibal taking advantage of him. There's no chin grabbing. There's a gentle kiss to his forehead, chaste touch of his shoulders, nimble skilled fingers teasing at the knots all over his body.

He knows he will never be sure of if Hannibal ever did touch him, but he's grown more accustomed to the idea, the slight suggestion that he did not. And perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he can think about kissing him without any guilt and without any fear.

When they finally kiss, Hannibal asks for his permission over and over, fretting excessively. 

"I want to earn your trust, Will," he says. "You can tell me to go away, you can tell me to stop. I love you. I'll do anything for you."

Will wants him to stay; he wants him to stay and to be there forever with him. But he doesn't give him that yet. "Piss off, then."

He'll allow himself the privilege of being in Hannibal's arms soon. He just needs to grow used to just how much that idea has grown from disconcerting to comforting in the last few months of being on the run. With him; forever and ever, as long as life goes on for the two of them.


End file.
